


If I had but one day left

by HelveticaBrown



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Angst, F/F, Future Fic, Mention of past OQ and CS
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-07
Updated: 2016-02-07
Packaged: 2018-05-17 01:02:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 14,268
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5847811
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HelveticaBrown/pseuds/HelveticaBrown
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's been years since Emma and Regina had a falling out, but Henry has never been able to figure out what happened between them. A new crisis draws Henry back to Storybrooke and it just might prove to be the catalyst that brings his mothers back together.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Henry

**Author's Note:**

> This is a future fic, set when Henry is around 23. There are a few changes from canon - I've basically ignored all of the Camelot stuff, and tweaked a few other minor details to suit the story I'm telling. There are also a couple of mentions of Robin and Killian (one each). I promise they're incredibly brief and very much a thing of the past in the story.
> 
> Thank you to mippippippi for creating something so lovely to go with my story. I am beyond stoked. And thank you also for your suggestions around tweaks to the story.
> 
> Thank you also to my wonderful beta, AgathasAjax for catching my mistakes and helping me work through some tricky issues. And many thanks to blutitanium for cheerleading.
> 
> And finally a big round of applause to the wonderful folks who managed to wrangle so many artists and authors and made this such a fun event. I've really enjoyed taking part in the last two SQBBs and I'm sad to see it end.

* * *

The past three mornings, Henry has awoken bathed in sweat, not in the least bit rested and with a formless sense of dread churning in his stomach. He can’t remember his dreams, but Aaron, whose tent is closest to his, has complained about him shouting in the middle of the night. The fourth morning, he finally remembers and his hands shake so much as he shaves that his face is a mess of tiny cuts. At breakfast, he barely notices the ribbing he’s getting from his colleagues over his sudden ineptitude. It’s been years since he’s dreamed of the room of flames and his mind is heaving with the possibilities, all of them terrifying.

He tries to push the thoughts aside, tries to concentrate on the important task at hand. His fieldwork is at a critical stage and he can’t afford to be distracted, but his mind keeps creeping back to that place of childhood nightmares. That night, he dreams again and wakes up in the early hours of the morning, this time with one more detail in hand. There’s someone else trapped in the room, an indistinct figure that he’s unable to recognise through the flames.

He shoves a few things into a bag, and as the first light creeps over the horizon he leaves the camp behind. He’s throwing away six months’ worth of fieldwork, a chance at publication and potentially compromising his scholarship, but there’s an irresistible force pulling at him. It takes five hours to get to the airport, and then he spends almost all of his savings on the first flight he can get to Boston. He lands in the middle of the night and somehow manages to get a rental car. He drives straight to Storybrooke, and pulls up in front of 108 Mifflin Street as the sun is rising.

He sits in the car for a few minutes trying to psych himself up. With every mile he travelled closer to Storybrooke, the sense of dread had magnified. And now that he’s here, he’s terrified of what he might find. Finally, he coaxes reluctant limbs into motion, hops out of the car and walks to the front door. He still has a key and he opens the door, careful not to make too much noise.

He’s surprised when he sees Ma in the living room, nursing a cup of coffee and staring into space. She looks tired, more tired than he ever remembers seeing her and it’s her presence in the house that finally gives form to all his fears. Beyond holidays and family events, as far as he knows, she doesn’t set foot in this house any more.

“Ma?”

She looks up at the sound of his voice, starting slightly, before she stands up, a weak smile creeping across her face.

“Henry. Thank god you got the message.”

He shakes his head. “I didn’t get it. Ma, what’s going on? Is Mom okay?”

Her face crumples and he pulls her into a hug. “No, she isn’t. But now that you’re here, maybe she will be.”

She buries her face in his chest, and it’s strange to find their positions reversed. For once, he’s the one giving comfort; Ma’s worn too thin, and even though he suspects what he will be confronted with, until he sees it with his own eyes it won’t quite be real.

“Where is she?” Henry breaks the embrace, taking a step back, but leaving his hands on her shoulders.

She doesn’t answer. Instead, she turns and leads him up the stairs. He trails behind her and as she turns the handle and pushes open the bedroom door, he pauses, lingering in the doorway. It’s been a long time since he’s set foot in this room. When he’d been small, he’d woken up almost every morning in the warm, safe, comfortable confines of Mom’s arms. He’d been six and a half when he had finally stopped creeping into her room in the middle of the night. When he finally steps into the room, he can’t bring himself to look at the bed.

There’s a thin layer of dust coating the surface of her dresser and he swipes his finger through it, thinking how much she’d hate that. In the corner of the room, there’s a chair with a blanket thrown over it, and a small collection of coffee mugs on the floor next to it, testament to the vigil that he presumes Ma has been keeping.

When he can’t avoid it any longer, he finally looks at the bed. There’s a horrible wailing, groaning noise and it takes him a moment to realise that he’s the source of it. He closes his eyes, squeezing them tightly shut. Ma is beside him an instant later, slinging an arm around him, and he wishes that he was small enough again to hide in her arms.

When he opens his eyes again, nothing has changed. Mom is arranged carefully in the middle of the bed. She’s still, so very, very still, the only evidence of life in the faint and occasional rise and fall of her chest. It’s jarring seeing her this way; hands that are always busy lie slack beside her and her face, normally so expressive, is like wax.

He’s struck by how tiny she looks, nestled there in the huge bed. Until this moment, he’s never realised quite how small she is; even after he’d grown taller than her when he was fourteen, she’d still seemed a giant to him. But that stature had been a thing born of presence, of personality, of strength of will and when he looks at her now, he sees none of it left.

He walks over to the bed and picks up one of her hands, wanting to reassure himself that life and warmth are still present, and that the motion of her breathing is not an illusion, his mind deceiving him into seeing what he wants to see.

Her skin is cooler than it should be, but not the cold of death, and when he removes the pressure of his hand, blood slowly returns to her fingers. Her heart is still beating. He likes to think he would know if it wasn’t.

“She was in the hospital, until we realised that it was a sleeping curse. When we realised there was nothing the doctors could do, I moved her here.” Ma says, and he suspects it’s just for the sake of saying something.

He’s glad that she did, because he knows that Mom would hate to be stuck in a hospital bed, strangers coming and going at all hours around her.

He turns to Ma and asks, “When did this happen?”

“A week ago. She was supposed to be having afternoon tea with your grandma, but she never answered the door. I came over to check things out, and found her collapsed at her desk in her study.”

Looking at Ma, Henry wonders if she’s slept for even a minute since then.

“Who did this to her?”

“We don’t know yet. Your grandpa is investigating, but I don’t dare to leave her for long, in case whoever did this decides that they’re not quite finished.” Henry can hear the frustration in her voice. Knowing Ma, it’s the frustration of not knowing combined with the frustration of inactivity. She’s always hated sitting on her hands.

She looks at him expectantly, and he realises that he’s been procrastinating, although he doesn’t care to examine why. There’s a very clear role for him here, and it’s to complete True Love’s Kiss and wake his mother up.

His mouth is suddenly dry and he can feel his hands shaking as he leans down, supporting his weight on the edge of the bed. He closes his eyes and presses his lips to her forehead and waits for the burst of light. He waits and he waits and he waits and when nothing happens, he opens his eyes to see Ma staring at him wide-eyed.

There’s a moment of what might be despair painted across her face, quickly masked when she realises that he’s looking at her. He thinks that it can’t even come close to the despair he’s feeling right now. He’s failed Mom, and he can’t even begin to think about what it means.

He hears Ma call his name, but he’s already on his way out, slamming the door behind him.

*****

He’s been there at least an hour before Ma finds him. She’s always had a knack for finding him, so he’s surprised that she’s taken so long. She jumps out of the car and sits down a few yards away.

“Your grandpa is watching over your Mom, and I’ve put wards up that should hold for now,” she says. After that, she doesn’t look at him, just sits there fidgeting with some grass, waiting for him to speak.

He squirms but manages to hold out for at least five uncomfortable minutes. It isn’t fair that she’s using her Sheriff tricks on him. Eventually, he can’t take the silence any longer. “How has she been? Before this happened, I mean.”

Ma shrugs. “We don’t talk much, but it doesn’t take a genius to know that she misses you, kid. We both do, but she takes it harder. You should come visit more often.”

“I know. I’m sorry.” He feels guilty every time Ma reminds him to call, every time Mom sends him a message, every time he picks up the phone and hears her voice, every time he finds another excuse not to come back.

“You don’t have to apologise to me. Just try a little harder, okay?” Her eyes soften. “You know, I understand what it’s like to feel like a misfit, to never feel quite like you belong anywhere.”

She leaves that baited hook dangling out there, and he’s reminded that for all her gruffness, all her apparent lack of polish, she’s always been far more perceptive than people give her credit for.

Because that’s just it. He feels trapped between two worlds. Here, he’s the son of the Evil Queen, the Saviour, of two powerful magic users, of heroes. He’s the grandson of Snow White and Prince Charming and Rumplestiltskin, and when people look at him here, they see his lineage and nothing more. They see an opportunity to exploit. He was fifteen when he finally realised that his main value in Storybrooke was as a liability, a vulnerability for his family’s enemies to exploit. They were busy being heroes, and he was being used as bait or a bargaining chip.

When he’s outside, he’s just Henry Mills and he lives and dies by his own merits. He’s a scholar and he’s good at what he does. He always buys his round when he’s out at a bar and his friends see him as solid and steady and kind. A good guy, where being a good guy doesn’t mean fighting dragons or saving the world. When someone expresses an interest in him, it’s not because of who his family is. He doesn’t have to worry that they’re using him to get at his parents, and it’s liberating.

But outside, they also don’t know about a boy who gave his heart to save magic, a boy who briefly held the power to change destinies, to shape the world, and chose to give it up. They don’t know about the marks that years caught up in the struggle between good and evil have left on his soul.

They certainly wouldn’t understand the guilt he feels right now. He loves Mom with his whole heart, no matter the distance between them, but apparently that’s not enough anymore. The true love between them appears to have faded, or maybe his heart simply isn’t big enough.

“Why wasn’t I good enough, Ma? Why couldn’t I wake her up?”

“We don’t know that yet, kid.” He rolls his eyes at the familiar nickname. “Maybe there’s something about the curse that we don’t know yet.”

There’s a twig next to his hand and he picks it up and stabs viciously at the dirt and grass next to him. “The rules are pretty simple. True Love’s Kiss will break any curse.”

Ma shakes her head. “Everyone likes to pretend that magic is simple, that there are rules that everyone knows and understands. It’s not. It’s never that simple.” Her voice is fierce as she says, “We’ll figure this out. We’ll find a way.”

He rolls the twig between his fingers and says quietly, “Sometimes I think I shouldn’t have broken the Author’s pen. I could have fixed this in an instant.” He looks up at her. “Do you think I did the wrong thing?”

She appears to weigh up the idea for a moment before looking at him seriously. “You know you made the right decision. You knew it then and you know it now.” She moves closer and slings an arm around him, resting her head on his shoulder.

“Henry, you have the biggest, truest heart of anyone I’ve ever known and if I had to choose anyone in the world to trust that power with, it would be you. But that much power… It doesn’t matter how good and strong and true you are, it can change you in ways you don’t even realise are happening.”

He knows she’s right. She understands the risk better than anyone. He wonders if she still wakes up with nightmares from her time as the Dark One. There had been a time when he’d hear her pacing through the house every night for months on end, or sometimes wake up to shouts or screams, or see the sleepless night clearly etched in her face at the breakfast table.

He knows all of this. It doesn’t mean that he hasn’t spent long nights thinking about the lives he could have saved, though. It doesn’t mean that he hasn’t fervently wished that he had the power to actually make a difference.

“I know you’re right. I just wish I could save her.”

“I know, kid. I know.” She squeezes him a little tighter to her. “I promise we’ll solve this. She’s going to be okay.”

They go back to the house and David greets them. He pulls Henry into a brief hug, clapping him on the back before holding him at arm’s length, clasping his upper arms. David smiles and nods admiringly. “You’ve been keeping up with your strength work. We should get the practice swords out while you’re here, get in some training.”

Henry can’t help but find the forced joviality grating; he knows what his grandfather is trying to do, but he’s not in the mood. And the truth is, he’s never particularly enjoyed swordplay. He’d been so eager to learn when he was younger. Eager to find a way to connect to these newly discovered family members and his heritage and to find a way that he might be able to be useful. And although his grandfather is a good, patient teacher, Henry has never progressed particularly far.

But he smiles anyway, and says, “Sure thing, Grandpa.”

Henry goes into the kitchen to make tea, just to give himself something to do. He’s barely been here a few hours, and now that his role in this drama has proved to be little more than a bit part, the idea of just waiting around for something to happen is driving him insane.

He drags things out for as long as he can, before he returns to the living room. In the time that he’s been in the kitchen, David has left, and Belle has arrived. He sits down in a chair in the corner, sipping his tea, and listens as Ma recounts his failure to her.

Belle is frowning as she listens, and occasionally she shoots sympathetic glances over in his direction. “It’s very strange that it wouldn’t work, because this appears to be a simple sleeping curse and we have confirmation of True Love between Henry and Regina. But maybe there’s more to it.”

Ma sighs. “If you have any ideas, I’d be open to hearing them.”

“Maybe the problem isn’t a lack of True Love. Maybe it’s in the requirements to activate it. Henry wasn’t born in the old world and perhaps what’s missing is the initial spark of magic.”

He gets up and walks out of the room. He can’t listen to this anymore. He goes upstairs and stands over the bed, watching her sleep. He takes off his shoes and lies beside her and curls up as small as he can, clasping her hand in his. He closes his eyes and tries to pretend it’s just a nightmare and he’ll wake up in a world that has been righted again, just as he had so many nights when he was a child.

Ma finds him there a while later; he stirs at the sound of her opening the door. He can still feel the lick of flames against his skin, and when Ma brushes a hand across his forehead, her hand feels shockingly cool.

“You’re burning up,” she says.

He opens his eyes, and she’s leaning over him, worry written all over her face.

“I can’t get to her, Ma. She’s there, but I can’t reach her. The flames are too hot and she’s too far away.”

He realises he’s crying when Ma perches on the side of the bed and smooths her hand across his cheek, and she’s murmuring his name over and over again like an incantation, like a protection spell.

He’s here, in the place he’s always felt safest, the two people he loves most in the world by his side. He closes his eyes again, and for a second or two, he can pretend that everything is perfect. Except it’s not. Mom is lost in a place he can’t reach, and looking at Ma, he thinks she might follow soon; she’s burning up from the inside. She looks hollowed out, and he thinks that with just the slightest pressure, she might collapse in on herself. He needs to be strong, needs to fight for them like they’ve always fought for him.

*****

Three days after Henry’s arrival, they are no closer to finding a solution, and no closer to finding whoever was responsible for the curse. The item carrying the curse was a long needle that Ma had found nestled among the paperwork on Mom’s desk. It was entirely generic and innocuous-looking, and nothing about it provided any clues to its origins. Ma had attempted to find some sort of magical fingerprint to point her in the direction of the curse’s caster. However, the only magical traces she had been able to find were Mom’s and she’d concluded that when the curse had been activated her magic must have interacted with the curse, masking any evidence of the caster’s identity.

Ma is barely sleeping as she pores through the vast collection of books that Mom keeps in the house and in her vault. And she tries spell after spell, but none of them wake Mom up, and none of them help narrow down the suspect list. The truth is, there _are_ no suspects. Storybrooke has been peaceful for the past two years and while there is a list of people a mile long who might still be nursing a grudge against the Evil Queen, decades later, there is nothing in particular to point towards any one of them.

They’re basically flailing around in the dark, and the only progress they’ve made is determining that Belle’s theory on why he had been unable to break the curse is more than plausible. It’s frustrating to think that there’s nothing _he_ can do to wake her up, that once again he comes up wanting in this world that has never quite been his.  

It’s getting late, and Ma has been locked up in Mom’s study for hours now and he’s pretty sure she hasn’t eaten anything today. He pokes around in the kitchen and finds a batch of lasagne in the freezer. He finds a tray and puts the plates of food on it, and as an afterthought, grabs a couple of glasses and a bottle of wine.

He pushes open the study door, and Ma doesn’t even look up from the book she is poring over, a grunt of acknowledgment the only indication she has even noticed his presence. He slides the plate onto the desk next to the book, and she mumbles a thank you, but continues to read, ignoring the food.

“Ma, you should take a break.”

When she still doesn’t put the book aside, he makes a frustrated noise and takes the book away. She finally looks up.

“Henry, what the hell? I was in the middle of something.” She glares at him.

“Ma, whatever it is, it can wait a few minutes. You need to eat something; you’re no good to her if you run yourself into the ground.”

She sighs. “You’re probably right, kid.” She finally picks up the plate and starts picking at her food. He pours her a glass of wine and she takes it automatically. After a couple of hesitant bites, she starts to attack the lasagne. She gets halfway through the serving and stops, her fork hovering mid-way between the plate and her mouth, and he could swear that he can see her eyelashes glistening.

She wipes her eyes, and when she catches him watching her, she says, “Red pepper flakes. I never could get used to that lick of heat.”

He knows it’s a lie. He knows it because Ma’s had plenty of time to get used to it and she’d always complimented Mom on her lasagne. And he knows it because he’s pretty sure he’s feeling something similar right now. There’s an ache in his chest, a dreadful, gaping emptiness, and with every mouthful of his dinner, he feels that void grow bigger and bigger.

He knows it’s a lie, but he doesn’t call her on it, because his control over his own emotions is just as tenuous as hers. Instead, he takes a long draw of his glass of wine and says, “It’s pretty spicy.”

Ma wipes her eyes again and says, “Yeah, it is,” before draining half her glass of wine.

He’d never really thought about it before, never really noticed the way that Ma looked at Mom, until the year he brought his girlfriend Sarah home for Christmas, eager to show her off to his family. After the celebrations were over, they’d lain in bed together, chatting.

_“How long ago did your parents split up?”_

_He looked at her, confused. “What are you talking about? They’ve never been a couple.”_

_He’d told her some of the basic details of his strange family, but he’d kept a lot of it deliberately vague and she’d put two and two together and come up with five. After all, he could hardly tell her that one set of grandparents appeared to be the same age as Ma, or that his other grandfather was hundreds of years old and had previously been an immortal embodiment of evil._

_“Really? I just assumed when you mentioned that you had two mothers that they were divorced lesbian mommies and I kind of got that impression today.”_

_“Definitely not. I mean, they’ve been through a lot together, and they were friends for a long time, but, no. If there was anything more, I would have known about it.”_

_“Huh.” She frowned at him. “They just have this weird energy about them. They kind of spark.”_

After that, he’d watched them carefully whenever the opportunity had presented itself, and he’d started to wonder if perhaps Sarah was right. There _was_ something there; somehow, they both seemed to be hyperaware of the other, and it made no sense, particularly given the distance that had grown between them in the past couple of years. There were looks when they thought the other wasn’t looking, and he had begun to realise just how charged the atmosphere always was between them. He’d put it down to residual anger over whatever falling out they’d had. And then he’d thought back to all of those times they’d risked themselves for one another, and suddenly, they gained new meaning.

It was Thanksgiving weekend the following year when he’d finally got confirmation that Ma’s feelings ran a little deeper than friendship. He’d come home alone and broken-hearted after Sarah had dumped him and he and Ma had steadily worked their way through a bottle of scotch one evening.

_“I think I was in love with her, Ma. I kind of thought that we’d spend the rest of our lives together, but I guess she thought differently.”_

_She sat next to him on the floor, leaning against the sofa and poured another measure of scotch into his glass. “I’m sorry, kid.” She pulled him into a brief, one-armed hug and he leaned into her for a moment, savouring the contact._

_“I just want to stop feeling like this. How do I make it stop?” He was desperate to find a way out of this mire of despair. He’d never quite realised just how much loving someone could hurt._

_“I don’t know, kid. I’ll get back to you as soon as I find a way. Or maybe if you discover the secret first, you can let me know.”_

_It took a moment for the implication of her words to register and when it did, he turned to her, frowning. “Who are you trying to get over, Ma?”_

_She looked at him, a deer-in-the-headlights expression on her face as she stumbled over a denial. “No one. Nothing. I…”_

_He narrowed his eyes and looked at her suspiciously. “Is it someone I know?”_

_“There’s no one, Henry.”_

_He shook his head. “Ma, I may not have your gift, but right now I know you’re lying.”_

_She laughed, high and false and far too bright. “You caught me, kid. I’m in love with Leroy.”_

_He shook his head, ignoring the obvious diversionary tactic. “I know it’s not him. But I think I have a pretty good idea of who it might be.” He looked at her, his gaze direct, and he could see her sag a little, the fake humour of a moment ago gone. “How long have you been in love with her?”_

_Recognition bloomed in her eyes with this last question and she dropped any further pretence, her face open and vulnerable. “At this point, I don’t feel like I can remember a time when I wasn’t in love with her.” A moment later, she grabbed him, her fingers biting into his upper arm, and her eyes were suddenly fierce. “But Henry, you can’t tell her any of this. You have to promise that you won’t tell.”_

_“I promise. I promise I won’t tell. It’s not my secret.” He felt her grip on his arm relax a little and when he was certain she’d calmed down a little, he took a chance. “Ma, it’s not for me to tell. But you should tell her. I think she’d want to know.”_

_There was a momentary flicker of something that might have been hope in her eyes, but a moment later it was gone and she said, “Pretty sure we were talking about your love life, kid.” With that, she shut down any further conversation on the topic._

That was two years ago, and neither of them had brought it up since then.

He’s never quite been able to figure out what had actually happened between his mothers. He’d gone off to his first year of college and they’d been friends, best friends even, and when he’d returned over the winter break, things had suddenly become very frosty between them. He’d tried to sneakily quiz both of them, but had been comprehensively shut down. Over time, things had thawed a little, and he knew that they made an effort for his sake, but they’d never regained the intimacy that had characterised their relationship for a few years.

It’s a puzzle that he still worries at from time to time. He knows how Ma feels, but Mom is a mystery he’s never quite been able to solve. And right now, she’s telling none of her secrets.

Looking at Ma trying not to cry over a slice of lasagne, he feels a little bit of hope that she might be the solution. Because at this point, just about anything is worth a try.

She picks up the book again and starts studying it, and this time, Henry takes notice of what the volume is. It’s a book of fairy tales, a modern book from this world.

“Ma, what are you hoping to find in there?”

She looks up from the page she’s reading and shrugs helplessly. “I don’t know, Henry. But I’ve exhausted all the likely magical sources and Belle thought that maybe some of the stories in this world might offer some clues, because there’s a lot of detail that’s somehow leaked through. It’s the longest of long shots, but at this point I’ll take hope in whatever form it comes.”

He tries to keep the scepticism from creeping into his expression, but he’s pretty sure he’s failed when she sighs and throws the book across the room. They both wince when it hits the wall and one of the perfectly hung photographs falls to the floor and the glass on it shatters. Ma slumps in her chair, her head in her hands, and all he can think is that she looks defeated and he hates seeing her that way.

He walks across the room and picks up the picture from the mess of glass on the floor. It’s one of the three of them from a few years ago, before things turned cool between his mothers, and everyone looks content. He’s sandwiched between Mom and Ma, both with an arm around him, and they’re smiling at each other over his head, not looking at the camera.

He runs his thumb across the photo, forgetting for a moment that he’s supposed to be cleaning up the broken glass, and a stray piece catches his thumb, slicing into it. It’s not particularly deep, but it stings and he can’t help the reflexive _ouch_ that crosses his lips.

Ma is crouching down beside him a moment later, taking his hand in hers and he feels a pleasant warmth and then the cut is gone. She takes the photo from him, and with a casual wave of her hand, the pieces are back together, and it’s like nothing ever happened.

He sometimes forgets just how powerful she is.

She grimaces, and her voice is soft and despondent as she holds out the picture and says, “I can fix _this_ without a second thought. But I can’t fix the things that matter.”

She slides down the wall and sits on the floor. He takes the picture from her and sits down next to her. He’s been studying the picture for a couple of minutes when he finally speaks.

“But what if you _could_ fix things?”

She tenses up beside him and her voice is strained as she says, “I’ve tried, Henry. I’ve tried everything I know how to.”

“Not quite everything,” he says softly. “You haven’t tried True Love’s Kiss.”

He thinks she hasn’t heard him until she abruptly stands up and walks out of the room.


	2. Emma

Emma flees to the kitchen and ransacks the cupboards until she comes up with an unopened bottle of scotch. Her hands are shaking as she breaks the seal and pours herself a generous measure, and when she tries to lift the glass to her lips, it slips in her hand and splashes scotch all over her arm and the kitchen counter. She pours again, and this time when she lifts the glass, she drains the lot of it.

Her eyes water; it’s fairly smooth – Regina wouldn’t have cheap scotch in her house – but it’s meant to be sipped rather than chugged. She pours herself another and it goes down the hatch just as quickly, burning all the way down.

It burns, but it’s not enough to sear away the memories of the past week. It’s not enough to cauterise wounds that she’d thought were closed but are now raw and open and sapping her life force.

She remembers finding Regina. Her mother calling her, worried because Regina wasn’t answering the door. That first pang of concern at seeing Regina’s car in the drive.

She remembers pushing her concern away. Reassuring her mother that everything was fine and maybe Regina had just fallen asleep or been caught up with work.

She remembers the sound of Regina’s cell ringing over and over inside the house, no one answering her call. The feeling of worry gnawing at her and the look on her mother’s face.

She drinks.

She remembers trying all the doors before finding an open window and slipping through it, expecting any moment that Regina would appear and shout at her for her idiocy and remind her that there were several perfectly adequate doors she could have used to get into the house. Not that she had any business being there, anyway.

She remembers calling out and being greeted with silence. Her heart speeding up, anxiety taking hold.

She drinks.

She remembers the smell of a cake burning in the oven and tendrils of smoke beginning to escape into the kitchen. Anxiety giving way to terror as she turned the oven off and opened a window to clear the smoke.

She remembers rushing from room to room, before finally finding Regina slumped at her desk. The stillness of her, the lifelessness. The pain in her chest like someone reaching in and squeezing, squeezing, squeezing her heart.

She drinks.

She remembers shaking Regina, screaming her name. Her throat burning and her vision blurring and prayers to every god she knows the name of falling from her lips.

She remembers the pain in her arms from lifting the dead weight of her. The wrenching sense of dislocation and nausea as her magic carried them to the hospital. The frantic activity around her as nurses and doctors mobilised.

She remembers the steady beep of machines, the reassurance of life still present. Life still present, but only in the most superficial, perfunctory way.

She’s sitting on the floor, glass in one hand, bottle in the other, half of its contents gone, when Henry comes into the kitchen.

“Ma, are you okay?” He crouches down reaches out to take the bottle and the glass from her. She doesn’t resist. He puts them on the counter before sitting down beside her.

“I’m fine, Henry.” She pinches the bridge of her nose and closes her eyes against the dull, throbbing ache behind them. She’s not sure when she last slept; it might have been two days ago, maybe longer. And when she did, it was for a couple of fitful hours, and she’d woken up feeling less rested than before.

“That half-empty bottle of scotch says otherwise.”

“You don’t get to judge me for this, kid,” she snaps.

“I’m not judging. I’m just worried about you, Ma. What’s going on?”

“Nothing. I’m just trying to do the best I can and still failing miserably.” She finally opens her eyes and he’s looking at her with concern, his brow furrowed and lips turned down.

“I know you’re doing your best,” he says. “I just don’t understand why you don’t want to try this. If it doesn’t work, then we find something else to try.”

“Henry, please.” She doesn’t want to think about this right now. She just wants a few moments of peace, a few moments where she can try to forget that the last week has ever happened.

“Ma, what are you so afraid of?”

She doesn’t answer, partly because even she’s not sure she knows whether she’s more afraid of failure or success and what either of those outcomes would mean.

He doesn’t stop probing her and with anyone else, she thinks she would have already lost her temper or walked away. Even with him, she’s close to reaching that point. Henry in full flight has always been a force to be reckoned with, but somehow she’s managed to forget just how dogged, just how single-minded he can be.

“Why did you and Mom stop being friends? It’s obvious that you care about her, and…” He trails off, pausing for a moment before continuing. His voice is softer now. “She kept that photograph hanging in her study all this time, Ma. And it’s not because it’s a particularly great photo of me.”

“Just stop, Henry. _Please_.”

He finally stops and he’s staring at her, finally seeming to realise that he’s pushed too hard. “I’m sorry, Ma.” He puts a hand over hers, a hand that dwarfs her own, and she thinks she’ll never stop being startled that the small boy she’d met all those years ago is now a man.

She’s not angry with him; she knows that much like hers, a part of his heart is lying cold and still in another room of this house. She knows that he’s fighting for Regina in the only way he knows how: through persistence, through belief, through his desire to make everything whole again.

But she’s tired. Too tired for this conversation and too tired to think her way through to answers she’s pretty sure aren’t there.

“I’m sorry too, kid. I’m tired and I need some rest.”

The presence of the photograph _had_ actually surprised her. Although, with time, they had reached some degree of comfort with one another again, there had been a period of time where Regina had simply refused to acknowledge her existence. And it wasn’t without reason. She remembers the day that everything between them went to hell, as clearly as if it was yesterday. Regina had asked Emma to meet her down near the harbour and she’d showed up with a couple of coffees and they’d walked along the shore and talked about nothing and then everything.

_“I ended things with Robin. A couple of months ago, actually.” They had been walking for a while when Regina casually dropped this into the conversation._

_Emma was surprised. Regina hadn’t mentioned any trouble between them and she’d seen them together around Storybrooke on multiple occasions recently. “I thought he was your soulmate. Your happy ending.” She couldn’t help the heaviness in her voice, even though she’d known long ago that no matter how much she might wish otherwise, that could never be_ her _place._

 _“He wasn’t my happy ending, Emma. You_ know _that. No one person could ever be all of that. He was part of a new beginning, and he’ll always be an important part of my life. Some things aren’t meant to last forever, though, and this is one of them.”_

_“I’m sorry.”_

_“Don’t be sorry, Emma. I’m not. Be happy for me, instead. I’ve finally found the courage to go after what I want.”_

_Emma felt a sudden wave of trepidation wash over her. The way Regina was looking at her, dark eyes wide and liquid and filled with hope and longing, terrified her. She swallowed, and she couldn’t keep the shakiness out of her voice when she asked, “What_ do _you want?”_

 _“I want_ you _, Emma. I’m in love with you. I have been for the longest time.”_

_And there it was. A moment that she’d been caught between hoping for and fearing finally coming into being. Hearing those words, she wanted nothing more than to step forward and take Regina in her arms and never let go. She wanted to, but she couldn’t._

_Instead, she said, “I’m sorry, Regina. I don’t feel that way about you.” The lie stuck in her throat, the words coming out all cracked and broken._

_Regina stared at her, and eyes that had been filled with hope and vulnerability a moment ago were hard, shuttered. When she spoke, her voice was flat and it was like Emma was hearing her across a vast distance. “I’m sorry. My mistake. You don’t need to worry; I won’t trouble you with this ever again.”_

She had watched Regina walk away, and when she was certain that she was alone, she’d sunk to the ground and cried. Even now, years later, it still hurts when she thinks about it.

She struggles to her feet, exhaustion and alcohol making her clumsy, and says, “I’m going to bed.”

Henry sighs. “We both should get some sleep. I’ll keep watch over Mom; you need to get some decent sleep in a real bed tonight.”

Her legs are heavy as she climbs the stairs, but she takes the last few at a run, the alcohol finally hitting her stomach and roiling unpleasantly. She makes it to the bathroom just in time and then she’s retching violently and the alcohol burns worse on the way back up and her sense of taste and smell are overwhelmed by the putrid, acidic contents of her stomach.

Henry’s beside her a moment later and he’s stroking her back and murmuring soothing nonsense to her as she continues to retch and retch until there’s nothing left. Her stomach is tender and aching and she wraps her arms around herself when she finally sits up. Henry gets up and runs her a glass of water and she tries to get rid of some of the awfulness in her mouth.

She sits for a while, still feeling too shaky to stand and when she finally does, she needs Henry’s help to get up. She brushes her teeth three times, and Henry hovers, watching her with a worried expression, until she says, “Kid, I’m okay now. I can take it from here.”

He gives her another worried look, and she manages to smile at him reassuringly and say, “Thanks, kid.”

When she finally climbs into the bed in the spare room, it doesn’t take her long to fall asleep.

She dreams…

It always starts the same way. She cups Regina’s cheek in her hand and her thumb smooths a path across her lower lip. Regina looks at her with eyes that are soft, so very soft, and she feels like she could lose herself in them and never re-emerge. She replaces the thumb with her lips and kisses her, sweet and slow and gentle.

Regina’s face is open and trusting and Emma smiles and whispers, “I love you.” And Regina is smiling and smiling and then she’s not. She’s not smiling because Emma’s hands are wrapped around her throat, or her hand is in her chest, squeezing her heart, or there’s a knife burying itself in her gut, or a sword slicing clean through her neck.

Sometimes the face changes, and it’s Killian instead, looking at her with wounded eyes as she plunges her hand into his chest and cradles his heart in her hand. And there’s a fierce joy rushing through her as she tightens her grip incrementally and the pain on his face grows and grows and she laughs as he has to fight harder and harder for each successive breath. Then finally, her fingers spasm and he collapses to the ground as his heart slips through her fingers, like so many grains of sand, and is taken by the wind.

Those nights, she wakes up knowing she’s being haunted by a memory rather than a dream.

This time, she is pressing a pillow down over Regina’s face and she feels her jerk and spasm beneath it until she’s still. Emma wakes up and there’s a horrifying sense of wrongness filling her lungs, her mouth, her nostrils, like she’s drowning in a pit of tar. She always wakes from these nightmares feeling sick and unsettled, but this is different. She knows, without quite knowing how, that something is deeply wrong and she’s out of bed, rushing into the hall.

Henry is awake and leaning over Regina, and when she bursts into the room, he looks up at her and there’s terror in his eyes.

“Ma, I don’t think she’s breathing anymore.”

She doesn’t need to look at Regina, doesn’t need to feel for a pulse or hold a mirror to her lips to check for breath. She _knows_. She can feel her slipping away, can feel the tiny, dormant ball of magic at Regina’s core unspooling.

And she knows that time has run out. Knows that whatever the consequences, she has to act now, has to take a chance. Henry’s looking at her, desperation in his eyes, and his voice is beseeching as he says, “Ma, you have to try. Please, before it’s too late.”

She’s already beside the bed before he finishes speaking and she looks down at Regina, tranquil and ethereal and terrifyingly mortal, and she hopes with everything that she is.

Her vision blurs as tears well up in her eyes and she wipes at them with the back of her hand.

Henry’s leaning over Regina, holding one of her hands and he’s crying too. Emma takes a deep breath, cups Regina’s cheek with her hand and then bends down to press her lips to her forehead. In her head, she’s whispering over and over, _please, please, please wake up_ and _I love you_.

She hopes and she hopes and she hopes.

As her lips make contact, there’s a flash of light, and Emma feels a certain relief, but she doesn’t take time to savour her victory. Instead, she is already backing away and as she does, she says, “You can’t tell her, kid.”

She’s standing in the far corner of the room by the time she sees Regina’s fingers twitch and tighten around Henry’s, and she doesn’t stick around any longer.

She flees the house, heedless of the fact that it’s still dark and she’s wearing her pyjamas. She gets into her car and drives home, not looking back even once, and when she gets there, she collapses straight into bed and pulls the covers up as far as they can go and hopes that when she closes her eyes, she won’t be assailed by any more dreams for tonight at least.

*****

She wakes up and it’s nearly lunchtime. Her sleep was blessedly dreamless for the first time in a while, but she feels even more exhausted now that the adrenaline of the last few days has finally worn off and she’s had a few hours of decent sleep. When she goes to have a shower, she’s surprised at how gaunt, how haggard she looks, her hair limp and lifeless, and her eyes deep in their sockets and her skin almost bruised-looking.

She spends the rest of the day ignoring her phone, which has been going off every few minutes. She checked it once and she had 27 missed calls from Henry and at least as many text messages. She puts her phone in another room so she doesn’t have to see or hear it; every time it lights up, she feels a little twitchy.

It’s early evening when the banging on her door starts and she ignores it for as long as she can, but it’s annoyingly persistent. She turns the TV up, but she can still hear the incessant knocking and the sound of Henry calling out through the door every so often. She curses and turns down the TV before opening the front door. Henry almost falls forward, poised as he is to knock again.

“What the hell, Ma? I’ve been trying to call you all day. And I know you heard me knocking. I heard you turn the TV up.” His voice is laced with frustration and his cheeks are pink from standing out in the cold for so long.

She wraps her arms around herself and leans against the door, not looking at him. “Didn’t feel like talking.” Henry takes the open doorway as an invitation to come in.

She shakes her head and shuts the door; if he’s going to have it out with her, it might as well not be in front of half the town.

Henry heads down the hall and sits down on the sofa, grabbing a handful of the Reese’s Pieces she’d been eating for dinner. She stays standing, leaning against the doorway of the living room. He picks up the remote and starts flicking through stations, not paying attention to her.

They continue this stand-off for five minutes before Emma breaks. The truth is, there are things she’s been wondering all day, and presented with the opportunity to get some answers to those questions, she can’t help but take it.

“How is she?” she asks softly.

“Awake. Alive. Confused.” Henry shrugs. “She’s still getting her bearings.”

“Does she have any ideas about who did this to her?”

“None. She’s having trouble remembering; she’s lost most of the day that she went under. She spent more than a week trapped and…” he trailed off, distress clouding his face. “Time moves strangely there and you’re surrounded by nothing but flames and the ghosts of your past. And Mom has so many ghosts…”

Henry’s never really told her what the curse was like for him and looking at him now, she wonders how much pain he’s secretly carried. She watches him, frowning, until he gives her a reassuring smile.

“Does she know?” She doesn’t need to be more specific; she sees the immediate comprehension in Henry’s face.

“No. I haven’t told her.” He looks at her, his gaze forthright and unwavering. “I haven’t told her, but I will if you don’t. It’s not fair to keep her in the dark like this.”

“Henry…” she starts, but trails off. She knows he’s right. It isn’t fair to Regina, and it’s not fair to Henry to ask him to carry this secret, even though she has her reasons for wanting Regina not to know.

He shakes his head. “I don’t understand why you’re so resistant to this, Ma. It’s a good thing; it means that she loves you too.”

“It’s not that simple, Henry.”

“Why not? You woke her up with True Love’s Kiss.” In moments like this, she can still see the boy he was. Age and a dash of cynicism can’t quite mask that at heart he’s still a romantic, still a believer.

“Come on, kid. After everything, surely you know by now that fairy tales aren’t always what they seem. Sometimes there are things that lurk behind the stories.”

“Yeah, I do know. So tell me, what’s the truth behind this story? What am I not seeing?” She can hear his frustration and she understands it. Because on the surface, it _does_ all look so simple.

She thinks about telling him the truth. Telling him about darkness and visions and endless dreams of death. But she doesn’t. She can’t bear the thought of him looking at her and thinking of her like that.

Instead, she says, “I’ll talk to her. Tomorrow.” Her tone makes it clear that this is the end of the conversation and when Henry opens his mouth, looking like he’s about to argue or question her further, she gives him a pointed look and he subsides.


	3. Regina

Regina feels raindrops on her face, and after what seems like an eternity with flames licking at her skin and heat searing her lungs, it is the most blessed relief. It’s not until she opens her eyes that she realises they’re not raindrops. Henry is leaning over her.

Her mouth and throat are dry and she works her tongue around her mouth and swallows, trying to find some moisture to relieve the discomfort. She opens her mouth and when she speaks, her voice sounds scratchy, and her throat hurts even more. “Henry?”

“Mom. Mom, you’re okay. You’re okay.” He’s smiling now through his tears.

“Can I have some water?”

He grimaces. “Sorry. I should have thought of that.” He runs off and returns a moment later with a glass of water. He helps her sit up and she thinks she’s never felt anything quite as wonderful as the water currently soothing her parched mouth.

“Thank you, dear.” She’s tired, but the thought of sleeping holds very little appeal right now. With each moment that passes, though, she feels a little more alive. And Henry is here, his mere presence giving her strength.

“Thank you for waking me, dear.” She smiles at him and he gives her a tentative smile in response. “How long?” she asks.

“A little over a week.”

“It felt like it was much longer.” She can’t help the grimace that forms as she thinks about her time in the room.

Henry’s eyes are soft and sympathetic and he takes her hands in his. “I know.” He squeezes her hands, and she takes comfort from the strength, the solidity, the realness of his grip. “I know. But you’re safe now.”

“Was Emma here?” She dimly remembers hearing Emma’s voice. There’s some tension in his face at that, and Regina can’t understand what it’s from.

“Yeah. She was, but she had to go home.”

“Oh.” She’s irritated that she can’t help the brief pang of disappointment. A thought occurs to her. “Henry, shouldn’t you be out doing your fieldwork at the moment?”

He sighs. “I was. But then this happened.”

“Henry, please tell me that you haven’t jeopardised your project by coming back.”

He shrugs. “I don’t know yet. But even if I have, it doesn’t matter. _This_ is what matters.” He holds her gaze, fierce and determined. “I wouldn’t have been able to live with myself knowing you were trapped there.” His voice softens and he says, “I knew something was wrong as soon as I dreamed of the room.”

“I felt you there.” His presence, fleeting and frustratingly beyond her reach, had been the only respite from the relentless despair. Seventy years was more than enough time to build up a terrifying arsenal of regrets and she’d relived a significant number of them by the time she awoke.

Henry is looking at her with concern, but she doesn’t want to burden him with this. Her troubles are her own and she’ll work her way through them one way or another. Her stomach rumbles audibly, and it provides a welcome excuse, a way to redirect the conversation.

“I could really do with something to eat,” she says.

She makes a move to get out of bed and Henry frowns. “Mom, you should rest.”

She shakes her head. “I’m done with rest. I’ve been _resting_ for a week and the last thing I want to do right now is stay in bed.”

He grumbles a little, but helps her out of bed and down the stairs. However, when they get to the kitchen, he insists that she sit down while he cooks for her.

“Mom, you’ve cooked me enough meals in the last twenty-three years. I’m pretty sure I can handle making you an omelette.”

She smiles at the sight of him bustling around in the kitchen. It’s odd to think of him taking care of her like this.

He puts the plate of food in front of her and she burns her mouth on the first bite.

“It’s hot, Mom. Wait for it to cool down,” he says, a perfect mimic of a line she’s spoken a thousand times. He grins when she rolls her eyes.

She’s halfway through when Henry asks, “Do you remember what happened? Who did this to you?”

She shakes her head. “I don’t know. I don’t remember much of what happened that day.”

The first tendrils of light are signalling the approaching dawn by the time she finishes eating. Henry goes back to bed to try to get a couple of hours of sleep, while she wanders through the house.

She can feel Emma’s presence everywhere. It’s there in physical clues. There’s the blanket on the chair in the corner of her room with long, golden strands of hair stuck to it. The duffel bag in the spare room with a few items of clothing, and an unfamiliar toothbrush in the bathroom. The half-empty bottle of scotch in the kitchen that she’d bought for Emma, in the futile hope that maybe she’d have an opportunity to share it with her.

It’s also there in less visible ways. The air is heavy with the unique tang of Emma’s magic; she doesn’t even have to extend her senses to feel it. She’s immersed in it and it brings up a complex mess of emotion. Emma’s magic is almost as familiar as her own; being surrounded by it feels strangely homely, strangely comforting. But there’s also a wistfulness, a sense of longing for what they were, for what they could have been. It doesn’t matter how much time passes, it’s always there. She’s never been good at letting go.

She sits in the kitchen sipping tea trying not to lose herself in brooding over the past. She’s done nothing but drown in the past for the last week.

Henry wakes up and he’s solicitous, annoyingly so after a while, and she snaps at him, before apologising. She wants to get out; after only a few hours, she’s already feeling stir-crazy.

“Mom, we haven’t caught whoever did this to you. It might not be safe.”

It’s frustrating. She’s been turning it over and over in her head, but she can’t seem to get the events of that day straight in her head. And she can’t think of anyone she’s given particular cause to want her dead or cursed recently.

“Henry, I’m perfectly capable of looking after myself.”

“Please Mom. At least let Grandpa ask you a few questions to see if he can get any clues about what happened.”

She agrees with a sigh.

David comes around later that day and he questions her for what seems like hours, going over and over the events of that day and the period leading up to it. The barrage of questions doesn’t do anything to help her clarify things in her mind. He leaves, and he’s just as frustrated as she is at the end of it.

The hours pass slowly. She’s happy to have Henry with her after so long, but he’s distracted. Each attempt at conversation lapses very quickly, and every time she looks at Henry, he seems to be surreptitiously checking his phone.

She finally calls him on it. “Expecting a call?”

Henry startles at the sound of her voice. He shakes his head. “Just looking at stuff on the internet. Nothing important.”

Later, she hears him leaving a voicemail for Emma, his voice low and urgent. She can’t hear exactly what he’s saying, but there’s clearly something going on.

*****

The doorbell rings, and Regina is surprised to find Emma pacing back and forth when she opens the door.

“Emma?”

“Hey.” Emma stops pacing. Her hands are jammed deep in her pockets and her eyes are steadfastly focused on some point near her feet.

She wonders why Emma is suddenly looking so agitated. They’ve never quite been able to close the distance that had grown between them, but for the past few years they’ve always managed to be civil, at least. She’d initiated the distance, needing time to recover from the disappointment and the humiliation, but when she’d been ready to try to be friends again, she found that Emma had withdrawn.

She searches for something to say to break the silence. Emma’s clearly here for a reason, but she’s not talking yet. Finally, she says, “I’m sorry that I haven’t thanked you yet. I know you tried very hard to help me.”

Emma starts pacing again, and she’s clearly nervous, although Regina can’t begin to imagine what has her so upset.

Regina catches hold of her arm the next time she steps past. “What’s going on, Emma?”

Emma looks at the hand on her arm with confusion, before finally looking up and meeting Regina’s eyes. “I need to talk to you about something. Is it okay if I come in?”

Regina lets go of Emma’s arm and motions for her to enter. She walks through to the kitchen and Emma follows her.

“Can I offer you a drink? Tea? Coffee?”

“Got anything stronger?” Emma’s agitation is still evident when she ignores the seat Regina points her towards and continues to pace.

Regina puts the kettle on for herself and finds the bottle of scotch that Emma has already made substantial progress on. She pours her a measure, which Emma accepts and promptly downs before holding out the glass for another. The second one follows a similar path and she gives up and slides the whole bottle across the kitchen counter to Emma.

As Emma pours herself a third measure, Regina raises her eyebrows and says, “Now that you’ve fuelled yourself with enough liquid courage to kill a moose, care to tell me what this is about?”

“It’s about how you woke up.” Emma hesitates, glancing back and forth between her glass and Regina.

She folds her arms and says, “Well, what about it?”

“It was me.” Emma says it so softly that Regina’s not sure she heard her right.

Regina frowns. “I beg your pardon?”

“It was me. I woke you up.” Emma’s voice is firmer, louder, and she finally looks directly at Regina.

“How?”

“The old-fashioned way. With a kiss.” Emma still doesn’t look away, and Regina is the first to break eye contact.

“But Henry…” Regina trails off, not able to finish her thought. She wasn’t sure what she was expecting Emma to say, but it certainly wasn’t this. The revelation is so far out of left field that she can’t quite settle on a response.

Emma shrugs. “I asked Henry not to tell you. I shouldn’t have, but I panicked.”

Her mug is sitting there with a tea bag in it, waiting for hot water. The kettle has boiled, but Regina tosses the unused tea bag out and instead takes the bottle of scotch from the counter, pouring some into the mug.

She gulps down a mouthful of the liquor and now it’s her turn to pace as she tries to make sense of her racing thoughts.

“So what does this mean? It’s some sort of platonic best friends who love each other very much thing?” She shakes her head. “That doesn’t make sense; we barely talk to each other anymore and that’s not how I feel. Sometimes I think I don’t even particularly like you.” She continues to pace and Emma watches her silently, not interrupting to respond to her muttered monologue.

She does know what it means, though. She knows, because as much as she doesn’t like Emma at times, she still loves her. Is still _in_ love with her, despite everything. A thought occurs to her and she stops in her tracks, turning to look at Emma again. She addresses her directly. “How long? How long have you felt this way?”

“I don’t know. Long enough,” Emma says softly.

“Tell. Me. How. Long.” Regina can’t help the way her mouth curls as she speaks, almost spitting out each word.

“Before New York. Maybe longer,” Emma says, looking down at her hands.

“So, before I told you I was in love with you, then,” she says. She slams her mug down on the bench, not caring as the liquor sloshes out onto her hand, onto the counter.

“Yes.”

The sound of ceramic shattering rings out. The mug that was in front of her a moment ago is now in pieces against the far wall of the kitchen. Her now-empty hands clench and unclench and she’s itching to destroy something else. It’s only with the tightest restraint that she manages to keep her magic from spilling forth.

“So you lied to me that day. Why? Were you ashamed at the thought of being with me? Was I not good enough for you? Why did you lie, Emma?”

Emma folds in on herself, appearing smaller and smaller at each accusation, each question. She wrings her hands, her voice hesitant as she says, “It wasn’t like that.”

“What was it like, then? Tell me,” Regina snaps.

“I was trying to protect you,” Emma says. She pauses a beat and then says, “From me.”

“Protect me from what, exactly? Your terrible taste in jackets? Your poor housekeeping skills? I don’t understand,” she says.

“From a prophecy that would lead to your death if it came true.” She doesn’t know what she was expecting Emma to say, but it certainly wasn’t that.

 _“Prophecy?”_ She imbues it with all the character of a swear word. She hates the way the word feels in her mouth, is sick of hearing it. If she could cross it out of every dictionary on the planet, she would.

“When I was the Dark One, I was able to see glimpses of the future. Most of it was a jumbled mess, but one thing stood out. One sentence. _My love for you would be your death_.”

Regina can’t help the incredulous note that creeps into her tone. “You chose to believe it exactly as is? Surely you know by now not to take prophecies at face value. For all you know, it could have meant that I’d die choking on a piece of toast that you made me for breakfast when I’m a hundred.”

“You don’t understand. The dreams I had were so real.” There’s a haunted look in Emma’s eyes, and if she wasn’t so utterly furious, Regina might feel a little sympathy for her. “I don’t know the how of it, but in my dreams I killed you so many times and I couldn’t take that risk. I couldn’t lose you.”

“And yet, you already did,” she says bitterly. So much wasted time. “Surely you know by now that I’m done letting prophecies and stupid magical schemes dictate the course of my life.”

“I did what I thought was right. Regina, please…”

She doesn’t let Emma finish. “We could have fought this together, but you chose to run away. I never thought I’d say this, but…” She shakes her head and says, “Emma Swan, you’re a coward.”

She advances on Emma, her breath coming fast and shallow, and even she’s not sure what she intends until she has Emma backed up against the wall. Then she’s leaning forward, and she kisses her. It’s hard, savage and she tastes the liquor on Emma’s breath and blood as her teeth catch Emma’s lip.

It’s nothing like the kisses she’s imagined; there’s no real joy in it, no real pleasure, just anger and a kind of twisted, misshapen version of desire born of years of denial. Emma sobs against her mouth, but pulls her closer, her fingers biting into Regina’s hips.

There’s a thigh slipping between her legs and she grinds down on it. Then, Emma’s hands slip around to her ass, holding her there, increasing the pressure. It’s not enough, though, and she pulls back, snarling in frustration.

Emma searches her eyes for a moment, before asking, “What do you want?” Her voice is soft, gentle and that annoys Regina more than anything.

What she wants is for Emma Swan to not have this power over her, this ability to hurt her after all of this time, this ability to give her hope and make her _want_. What she wants is to be able to wind the clock back five years, to have fought a little harder back then. What she wants is to be able to push away years of disappointment, to forgive, to look forward. But she’s too angry, and heart is pulling her in a dozen directions at once, so she says none of this. She’s not sure which direction will eventually win out, or if none of them will and her heart will instead be torn to pieces.

They stay there for a couple of minutes, close, eyes locked and breathing heavily, before Regina pushes Emma off. There’s a traitorous ache deep in her abdomen, and she hates that Emma’s touch can do this to her, hates that she wants to close that distance again and sate the need that’s welling up inside her.

She feels faintly disgusted with herself, at the weakness she’s shown, and she’s worried that if this continues any longer Emma will see how vulnerable she really is. “Get out,” she says, her voice harsh.

Emma looks like she’s been slapped and there’s a pleading note in her voice. “Regina? Regina, _please_.”

“Just get out of my house, Emma,” she says, her voice soft this time. She’s tired, too tired, and everything about this feels wrong.

*****

She’s been sitting at the kitchen bench, staring at nothing in particular for what might have been hours, when she hears footsteps behind her. She doesn’t turn, and a moment later, Henry is standing in her line of sight.

He walks over and stands in front of the bench against the far wall, which is still covered in shards of shattered ceramic. She hasn’t cleaned up, and several more items of kitchenware have since joined the destruction, falling casualty to her anger.

He surveys the wreckage for a moment, before finally turning to face her, and his eyes are soft and kind and knowing. “She told you.” It’s not phrased as a question.

She can’t help the prick of anger she feels at him for being complicit in this lie. And she’s angry at herself for feeling that way. But most of all, she’s angry at Emma for pulling them all into this. There’s a long moment that passes before she finally feels like she can speak without letting it all spill out. He doesn’t deserve to be the target of feelings meant for someone else.

“Yes, she did,” she says, before falling silent again.

“Why are you so angry, Mom? I mean, I know we both lied straight after you woke up and I’m sorry about that. But this is a good thing, right?”

She remembers that he doesn’t know the history between them. To him, it’s a simple case of two people in love, finally finding out the truth. But it’s not, and she says as much to him. “It’s not that simple, Henry.”

“That’s what Ma said.” There’s frustration in his voice and he frowns, confusion written all over his face. “But why can’t it be? She loves you and you love her...”

“It just can’t, alright?” She immediately feels ashamed when she sees him flinch at her tone. She never raises her voice with him, but she just can’t keep a lid on the anger she’s feeling right now. She consciously softens her voice. “I just need some time to think, Henry.”

He nods. “I’ll stay at Ma’s tonight. Give you some space.”

She shakes her head. “I’m sorry, Henry. You don’t have to go.”

She’s noticed there’s been a distance growing between them over the past couple of years, and she can’t put her finger on quite when it happened. She misses him. But since she’s woken up, this is the closest she’s felt to Henry in a long while, and she worries that by pushing him away now, she’s driving a bigger wedge between them.

That worry abates somewhat when he pulls her into a tight hug, and whispers fiercely, “I love you, Mom.”

They stay like that for a moment, and Regina doesn’t want to let go. But she does. Words catch in her throat, and she finally manages to choke them out. “I love you too, Henry.”

He gives her a worried look, and she forces a smile. “It’s okay, darling.”

He looks like he’s about to protest, but she waves him away. “I’ll see you tomorrow, Mom.”

He walks towards the kitchen door and she watches him. He hesitates and turns to face her again. “You know I just want you both to be happy, right Mom?”

After he leaves, she continues to sit there in silent fury, thoughts chasing themselves around and around her head, and she half regrets sending him away. Maybe she was better off with some kind of distraction.

Eventually, she gets up and goes to clean up the mess on the bench. She’s leaning over, picking up shards of ceramic one-by-one and examining them as if they might hold some kind of answer, before dumping them into the bin. She fumbles one of them and a sharp point stabs into her finger.

It’s barely more than a nick and it doesn’t even really hurt, but suddenly there are tears welling up and then they’re flowing freely, splashing onto her hands and the bench and the ruined mess in her kitchen.

She hates that Emma has reduced her to this.

She pulls the shard out of her finger, and through tears, stares at the bead of blood forming. She looks at the same finger on the opposite hand and the matching wound that is quickly fading.

She remembers.

She remembers sitting at her desk, going through old paperwork that she’d pulled out of the attic. She remembers missing Henry, hating the thousands of miles between them. She remembers missing Emma, the distance between them just a few miles, but the gulf between them somehow far less bridgeable. She remembers her eyes blurring and tears staining the papers in front of her as she shuffled through them.

She remembers the sudden stinging shock of a prick to her finger and then nothing at all and then every regret she’d harboured over a life that had felt far too long. She remembers it all, but she wishes she didn’t.

*****

Snow visits her the next day, despite Regina’s best attempts to beg out of the visit. When she gets there, she immediately picks up on Regina’s sour mood and challenges her on it. Her fury of the previous day has settled into a low, constant thrum of anger.

Regina pours their tea, and as she sits down, Snow says, “What’s going on, Regina?”

“Nothing.” In response to Snow’s sceptical eyebrow raise, she sighs and says, “I didn’t realise how bad it was. The sleeping curse, I mean. I’m sorry I did that to you.”

“You know I forgave you for that a long time ago, Regina.” Snow looks at her penetratingly. “But I don’t think that’s it. There’s something more going on.”

No matter how much time passes, Regina still finds it strange that after years of being enemies, Snow has become the closest friend she’s ever had. Even after things had soured with Emma, she had continued to grow closer to Snow. Despite that, she’s never told her the truth about what happened with Emma.

Snow continues to look at her, and she can see that she’s not going to be convinced by shallow deflections. “You’re right. I found out that someone has been lying to me for a very long time about something important.”

“Would this someone happen to be Emma?” Snow asks.

Regina looks at her with surprise. “How did you know?”

“She came over for dinner last night and she was in twice as foul a mood as you are now.”

“Did she tell you why?”

“Not in so many words, but I gather it had something to do with her feelings for you.” Snow searches her face and seems satisfied at what she sees. “And your feelings for her.”

Regina sips her tea, taking a moment to decide how to respond. Snow is watching her patiently and eventually Regina decides that there’s really not much point pretending any more. “Are you surprised?” she asks. “Because frankly, I can’t quite believe I’m having this conversation with you.”

Snow smiles. “I’m not. I’ve been expecting to have a conversation like this for a long time. The only surprise is that it’s taken this long.”

Regina can’t help the bitterness that seeps into her tone. “I told her years ago how I felt about her. She lied and said she didn’t feel the same. _That’s_ why it’s taken this long.”

Snow wraps her fingers around her tea cup and frowns at this. Eventually, she asks, “Did she tell you why she lied?”

“She said that she did it to protect me from something she saw when she was the Dark One.” She curls her lip in distaste. “A prophecy of my death.”

“You know, I once drank a potion to forget Charming to save his life,” Snow offers. Her tone is light, but she looks at Regina pointedly.

“I already knew that idiocy ran in the family,” Regina snaps, although she feels ashamed a moment later. “Sorry.”

Snow regards her evenly, not reacting to the insult. “In her place, what would you have done?”

“I don’t know.” She does, though. She knows she would have done something very similar. That’s why she and Emma are both perfect for each other and perfectly wrong for each other.

Snow doesn’t reply; there’s a Mona Lisa smile curving her lips slightly and she just watches Regina, waiting for a reaction.

*****

After Snow leaves, Regina feels incredibly unsettled. She tries to distract herself by baking, but after two batches of chocolate seize when she tries to melt them, she realises it’s an exercise in futility. Her head is full of Emma and she’s not going to be able to concentrate on anything until she reaches some sort of resolution, one way or another.

She gets into her car and drives over to Emma’s place. On the doorstep, she hesitates just for a moment, before ringing the doorbell. She hasn’t really thought about what she’s going to say. She just knows that she needs to see Emma.

Emma answers the door and her surprise is obvious when she sees Regina.

Regina doesn’t wait for an invitation; she steps inside and Emma shrugs and closes the door behind them. She walks into the living room and Henry’s there. He looks up from the book he’s reading.

“Hey Mom.” He looks between the two of them for a moment, before standing up. “I’m just going to head over to Granny’s. I’ve got a serious craving for a burger and a milkshake.”

He leaves the house, almost at a run, leaving the two of them to stare awkwardly at each other. They stand there saying nothing, and then both start to speak at once, before stopping abruptly.

Regina’s standing with her hand resting on her stomach, and it’s almost like she can touch the anxiety pooling there, through her shirt and through layers of skin and flesh.

Eventually, Emma breaks the silence that has formed between them. “I’m sorry. I should have told you what was going on. I was just so afraid of what might happen if I did, though.”

There’s still an instinctual flare of anger at the thought of what Emma had done, but it’s already fading. Compared to yesterday, it’s only a fraction of what it was, and tomorrow, Regina suspects, it will be a fraction of what it is right now. She’s wasted too many years of her life on anger and she doesn’t want to let it drive away any more of her chances at happiness.

“I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t angry,” Regina says. “You should have told me. We could have faced whatever it was together, because that’s when we’re at our best.”

“I know. I wish I had.” Emma is wringing her hands, in obvious distress. It’s so unlike her; Emma’s way is to bottle things up and this is perhaps the most raw and the most honest she’s seen Emma in a long time. Emma looks past her and says, “There’s just been too much death already, and if there’d been more, if I’d lost you, if I’d…” She trails off, shaking her head and Regina can see the fear in her eyes.

“You _should_ have told me.” She steps forward and takes Emma’s hands in her own, stilling their frantic motion. “But I’d also be lying if I said I wouldn’t have done the same thing,” she says, and the frown that’s been occupying Emma’s face since she got there starts to melt away.

“Regina?” There’s hope in Emma’s voice, and she’s searching, searching her eyes as if she can’t quite believe it.

“Emma, I don’t know what the future holds, and it doesn’t matter. I need you to know that I wouldn’t care if I only get to spend one more day on this earth, Emma. Because if I only had one day left, I’d want to spend it with you.”

Emma brings a hand up, and she’s hesitant, tracing the line of Regina’s jaw, but not quite touching her. Regina leans into her hand, turning a not-quite-touch into a caress, and when Emma finally contacts skin, her touch is gentle, reverent. Regina draws a shuddering breath, her eyes fluttering shut, and when she opens them, Emma is watching her like she’s afraid she’s going to disappear any moment now.

“I keep thinking I’m going to wake up,” Emma breathes.

“We’re _both_ wide awake, I promise.” She can’t help the hint of wryness that creeps into her tone. It’s not funny, but Emma smiles a little anyway.

Emma steps closer, and now Regina can feel Emma’s breath hitting her face. Emma’s hand has stilled on her cheek, and her eyes are wide and vulnerable as they lock onto Regina’s.

“I love you,” Emma finally says, and after waiting so long to hear those words and giving up hope, Regina is still surprised at how much power they have, at the way her heart speeds up and it feels like the air in her lungs is so light that she just might float away.

It takes her a moment before she can respond. “And I love you. So let’s not waste any more of the time we’ve been given.”

Regina closes what little distance remains between them. And this time, when they kiss, it’s magical.


	4. Epilogue

Henry stays out as long as he can. He’s made it through two milkshakes, a burger and three plates of fries by the time Granny raises her eyebrows at him and makes noises that suggest she would like to close up and he should go elsewhere.

He’s hesitant about going back home – to either home – because almost every possibility hints at the potential for awkwardness. When she’d walked into Ma’s house, Mom had the kind of look in her eyes that meant they’d either be declaring their undying love for one another, or Storybrooke would be going up in flames any minute now. Possibly both. Either way, he doesn’t want to risk walking in on something that’s likely to scar him for life.

He runs into some old friends from high school; they wind up at the Rabbit Hole and he manages to kill a few hours that way. They stay until closing, when the bartender finally kicks them out. Paige is dropping hints and for a moment he considers picking them up, but he thinks that decisions like this maybe shouldn’t be made after drinking enough rotgut to embalm a corpse.

Eventually, he stumbles home, back to 108 Mifflin, and he smiles when he notices that Mom’s car is not in the drive.

He wakes up, tired and more than a little hungover, to full daylight beaming in through the curtains. He stumbles downstairs in search of food and coffee and pauses in the doorway as he takes in the sight in front of him.

His mothers are standing close, so close, their foreheads pressed together. And they’re smiling, smiling like nothing else matters. Ma brings her hand up to smooth it across Mom’s cheek and she leans into the touch.

He tries to beat a silent retreat, leave them to this moment that should be all theirs, but in his haste, he bumps a side table and it tips over and its contents hit the floor with a loud clatter.

“Henry?” Mom calls out, and he thinks about ignoring her. He turns, though, and they’re both looking at him through the doorway.

Ma rolls her eyes at him and says, “You _can_ come in, kid. It’s your house.”

He sighs and walks into the kitchen. Maybe he should have taken Paige’s hint about rekindling old flames, instead of playing dumb.

He pours himself some cereal and Mom holds out a mug of coffee, which he accepts gratefully. And he watches them. Watches the way that they’re never far apart and when they are, they’re constantly reaching out, seeking out brief, casual contact as if to reassure themselves that the other one is still there.

He smiles, because it seems like, finally, everything is right with the world. For the first time in a long while, he’s content sitting in Storybrooke, an ordinary man surrounded by extraordinary people. For once, he’s glad he doesn’t have magic, because if he did, he wouldn’t be watching the two most important people in his life finally finding some of the happiness they deserve.

He gets up and rinses out his bowl and when he turns, they’re holding hands and gazing at each other. He walks over and slings an arm around both of them, pressing a quick kiss to each of their cheeks.

He steps back and says, “I’m glad you two finally found each other,” and walks out of the kitchen leaving them to it.


End file.
